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Story by KWAMBOKA OYARO
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After three years of marital bliss, Doris Opiyo's* husband turned hostile and he started beating her daily. Six years later, she still wonders why. This is her story: "Whenever I heard his boots stomping up the pathway to the front door, my heart would beat so fast that I always thought it would burst through my chest. I trembled with fear as I stood behind the door, my hand on the handle, waiting for the deafening knock. I opened the door as soon as I heard it. The timing between the knock and the opening was crucial. If I opened a second too early, he would beat me for opening for "an expected lover". A second too late and I would be beaten for taking my time. Other beatings would be for unbolting the door loudly in order to announce to the neighbours that he had just come home. The "Opening Ceremony", as I came to call it, gave him an excuse to kick me with his military boots.
He stepped on my stomach, my chest, my legs, back– everywhere. I pleaded for mercy but he ignored me. When he was through, it felt like a tractor had run over me. Every morning, he would clean my wounds, apologise profusely and promise never to do it again. The worst thing was that I believed him and waited for him to change back to the good man I had fallen in love with and married. We had courted for about four years and in that time he was the most understanding man I had ever met. I thanked God the day we walked down the aisle for giving me a gentle husband, especially because I grew up in a violent home. My father used to drink and come home to beat up my mother. I resented him deeply and gradually grew to hate men in general. One day – I was about six – I tearfully asked my mother why she stood the beatings. Why couldn't she just walk away from it all with us, her four children? She calmly told me that it was normal for husbands to beat their wives and that we children belonged in that home. "You punish us whenever we do something wrong, why does he beat you for nothing?" I asked her. Her response remained with me for a long time. "These things are complicated my daughter," she said, "you will understand when you get married." I did not argue with her and decided that the reason she continued to be in a violent relationship was because she was financially dependent on her husband. I promised myself never to get involved with a man like my father. I vowed to work hard and become financially stable just in case the man I married became violent. So I always chose my boyfriends carefully – anyone who raised his voice at me was ditched. When I met my husband, he fitted into my description of a gentleman. Things were perfect for the first three years of our marriage. It was a wonderful union and we had twin sons born a year after our wedding. On the day our sons celebrated their second birthday, exactly three years after our wedding, my husband kicked me from behind as I was putting the children to bed. I was stunned. I turned round and asked him why he had done that, but he just filled his glass with wine and sat down to watch TV. From that day on, he seemed to enjoy ridiculing me and slapping me for no apparent reason. One day he slapped me across the face as I dressed for work in the morning. For several days my left eye was red and the area around it swollen. I was surprised to find myself telling colleagues that I had fallen on some stones – the same explanation my mother used to give her friends and neighbours. Four months after the first time he hit me, my husband was sent for an assignment overseas for six months. I remember wishing it was longer. When he came back, he had refined his fighting skills and was more violent. Apart from reminding me every morning that I was ugly and fat, he was now beating me with more vigour. The children scampered for safety every time their father came home. We were no longer talking to each other and I literally was afraid of my own shadow because everything I did annoyed him. My confidence and self-esteem vanished and unhappiness engulfed me. I came up with excuses at work to avoid making presentations to our clients. I didn't want to be the centre of attention. Surprisingly, my husband treated our sons well and never laid a hand on them. But they were sad little boys and their nursery school teacher called us one day and asked us why they were not as cheerful as other children. Of course, I was the one who turned up and gave some excuse. The boys cried each time their father hit me and begged him to "stop hurting mummy." Once they even held hands and came between me and their father. He kicked them and they screamed as they landed on the floor near the TV. He suddenly stopped beating me, gulped down his wine and went to sleep. I spent the night huddled with my sons on the sitting room carpet. The following day I woke up feeling hollow. I was unable to concentrate at work and kept thinking of my mother. How could I go to her for advice? She would only tell me the same thing she told me when I was growing up – that husbands beat their wives all the time. I didn't have many choices. I had lost contact with my friends and I didn't want them to know what I was going through anyway. My mind was blank when I was told that I had a visitor at lunch time. It was my best friend, Annie, whom I had avoided for the last two years. She wanted to talk to me so we went to a restaurant. After a few minutes, I broke down. For the first time, I was able to pour my heart out. She looked at me and asked calmly, "How much longer are you going to hold on to this marriage?" I had no answer. "It is time you thought of what would happen to your sons the next time they are kicked. Your staying in the relationship is harming you and them. Imagine what would happen to them if you died." I mulled over what Annie had told me. The threat of death was real when I went home that evening and for the first time since my husband started beating me, I did not shed a tear. As soon as he left for work the following day, I packed my clothes and the children's and left my home of five years. That was when the tears flowed, as I regretted why it had taken me so long to make that decision. It's been four years since I left. It was hard starting all over again on my own, but now our home is full of love. My sons are happy and are even performing better in school. My husband has tried to get us back by saying that he has changed, but my feelings for him died a long time ago and nothing will make me go back to him. I learnt a lesson from my experience: each day is a gift so I enjoy it like it were my last day on earth. |
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